Stages of Grief
by Remingtonkeys
Summary: ***SPOILER*** Set immediately after the events of the season 3 Christmas special finale. The Crawley family deals with joy and heartbreak. Will cover various major characters in response to the tragedy.
1. Chapter 1

STAGES OF GRIEF

DENIAL

_Set in continuous action after the season 3 Christmas special. Since rumors indicate that season 4 will pick up months after the tragedy, I thought about what the immediate aftermath might look like for those left behind. _

The two cars slowed as they approached the scene. A lorry pulled awkwardly off to the side of the road, blocking the lane, it's cargo spilled across the narrow roadway. Two police vehicles were parked behind the truck just before a bend in the road. One constable stood in the center of the road, and held traffic as the lead car bearing Lord and Lady Grantham slowed to a stop just behind the truck. The second car pulled in behind, with Tom, Edith and Isobel craning their necks to see what the holdup was.

"Oh, Robert," said Cora. "I hope we're not too delayed. I can't wait to get my hands on that baby."

Robert nodded, also fidgety and anxious to meet his grandson and future heir. He leaned forward to speak with their driver. "See what's wrong and how long we'll be."

"Yes, m'lord." The man quickly nodded and exited the car.

Robert watched as the chauffeur spoke to the constable, who suddenly seemed interested in their little caravan. Both men approached the lead car, and the constable leaned in the open window.

"Lord Grantham, might I speak with you a moment?"

"Yes," Robert tried not to sound impatient. "What is it?"

Catching sight of Cora and the Dowager Countess, also seated in the lead vehicle, the officer hesitated. "I'll ask you please to step out the car and come with me, my lord."

Cora tugged impatiently at her husband's coat sleeve. "Robert—"

Robert sighed, cursing his never-ending responsibility to the county. "I'll be right back." He patted her arm, and climbed out of the car and was led to the side of the road just beyond the bend.

"Lord Grantham, I was just about to send a constable to Downton Abbey to fetch you."

"Why? This is a public road. It's not my land, and as far as I can tell that's not a lorry from my estate. Clean it up and let us by."

"Your lordship, I'm sorry to say the incident is worse than it appears." He walked Robert around the bend, beyond the scattered material from the truck and pointed across the road to the broken brush leading down an embankment. "I'm afraid the driver of the second vehicle was fatally injured."

Two officers stood off to the side at the road's edge, questioning the distraught lorry driver, who nervously held his hat in his hands. Robert didn't notice the man shrink at the sight of him.

"I'm ever so sorry, my lord," the man cried as the constable led him as far away from Lord Grantham as possible. "He must've been flying. I never saw him until it was too late. I swear."

Robert's eyes wandered into the woods, where the undercarriage of a wrecked roadster was visible. He slowly drifted to the edge of the dirt roadway.

The head constable followed Robert and spoke respectfully in lowered tones. "He's still pinned inside, so we haven't been able to reach the driver's identification yet, but I do believe I recognize him as your son-in-law, my lord."

His knees buckled beneath him as the reality of what Robert was seeing sunk in. "Matthew," he whispered.

"Lord Grantham, is that Mr. Crawley's car?"

Ignoring the question and forgetting his own lofty position, Robert quickly staggered down the steep embankment.

"No," called the constable. "Lord Grantham, it isn't safe. We have to secure the car or it may shift."

Robert slid in the brush and mud until he was beside the rear of the upturned car. Clutching at trees to keep himself upright, he fought an overwhelming feeling of dread as he slowly edged his way in sight of the driver's side.

There was no mistaking the lifeless figure he found there. _The driver of the second vehicle was fatally injured._

"Matthew." His voice was strained as he slumped beside the partially trapped body of his fallen son-in-law. The angle of the young man's head, the vacant eyes and the blood still pouring from his ears told Robert all he needed to know. "Matthew." He tentatively reached out and touched his surrogate son on the side of his bloodied face. "No. You can't leave us now. We need you. I need you." Alone in the woods, tears formed in Robert's eyes. "You have everything now for a perfect life. You have my daughter. A son. My god, Mary." He fought back a sob and buried his face in his bloodied hands. There would be no fairy tale for his daughter and grandson. "Your wife and son are waiting. Matthew, please." He looked up at the sound of a rustle in the woods behind him. Sliding down the small hillside, Tom suddenly appeared at the boot of the vehicle, but froze at the sight of a dazed Robert seated in the mud at the side of Matthew's body.

"My god," whispered Tom. "Matthew." The young man's eyes drifted from the lifeless form of his friend to Robert, who somehow seemed to be asking for an explanation that Tom was unable to give. "Oh, my god. No." Tom Branson stared in disbelief at the wreckage of Matthew's car, a familiar knot of grief and anger once again growing inside him. Would this family be spared nothing? Another loss. Another child who would never know a parent. More parents losing a child. A spouse widowed moments after life's most joyous event.

Robert shook his head helplessly, his soft voice hoarse and strained from trying to control his emotions. "I can't do this again. I cannot bury another child."

A parent now, Tom sympathized with the heavy weight his father-in-law bore with Sybil's tragic death, and knew he must also be recalling the awful night several years back when the lord and lady had lost their unborn son. And now, Lord Grantham's heir and father to the long-awaited future heir lay lifeless before them; another Crawley life that had ended far too soon.

"I'm sorry." Tom felt his words as hollow as those that fell on his own ears in the moments and days that followed Sybil's death, but what else was there to say? "I'm so terribly sorry."

A brief look of understanding passed between the two men—men divided by age and class and experience, recently united in purpose, and now again in grief and loss. Yet neither was quite prepared to ask, nor offer, any more.

Robert took a sharp breath, suddenly remembering Cora and the rest of his family waiting just yards away, waiting to welcome a new life into their world, blissfully unaware of the shattered lives around the bend.

Being a man of duty, Lord Grantham knew his responsibility now lay with the living. Perhaps because of Tom's proximity, or his lifelong training in public bearing, he resolved to set his grief aside for a more private time. He said a quiet goodbye to the young man who had singlehandedly saved Downton, Mary, and the future of the earldom itself. Slipping a bit on the uneven ground, Robert allowed Tom to grasp his arm to steady him as he struggled to his feet and removed his suit jacket. He removed his wallet and the imported cigars he had planned to hand out at the hospital, and gently laid the coat over his lost heir, allowing Matthew the dignity in death that he had earned in his short life.

Seeing Tom beside him, still overcome with his own grief, Robert awkwardly, but tenderly, patted the young man's shoulder. The two men silently steeled themselves for what was to come.

Tom led the way as they crept back up the embankment, figuring the unsteady Robert would prefer not to be handled by the constable under any circumstances. At the top, Robert did allow Tom to help him back onto solid ground, though the sight of the great Lord Grantham emerging dirty and streaked with blood drew the attention of the nearby policemen.

"That is your son in law, Lord Grantham?" asked the man in charge.

Robert nodded absently. "Yes." He cleared his throat in an effort to regain some air of authority. "I want him out of there at once."

"As soon as we have enough men to safely roll the car to free him. You have my most sincere condolences, my lord."

Not hearing the man's sentiments, Robert's attention was already turned to the vehicles that bore his family. Tucked around the small bend in the road, only the nose of the lead vehicle was visible. Robert turned to Tom, though more as a son-in-law than a chauffeur. "I think you should take them home before they—" He was interrupted by the sight of Isobel rounding the bend with a purpose.

"Robert," she called. "What's wrong? Is someone hurt? Perhaps I can help."

He knew he couldn't deal with Isobel by himself, not in his own present condition. He grabbed Tom by the elbow, "Get Cora. Quickly." As the young man scurried away, Robert quickly stepped forward to stop Isobel's progress. "Isobel, please, come with me." He tried to lead her back to the car.

"But if I can offer assistance, I must do it," insisted his cousin. "You needn't protect me. I've seen accident victims before."

"Isobel," Robert's voice cracked and tears filled his eyes. "Stop. Please."

Isobel finally realized the state her cousin was in. "What is it? Do we know them?"

Cora hurried to her husband's side, with Tom in tow. "Robert?"

At the sight of her, and the panic in her eyes at his blood-stained hands and shirt, Robert was unable to maintain his composure any longer. He broke down in front of both women, but reached out for Isobel's hands.

"Matthew," he whispered, trying to hold himself together. "It's Matthew."

Isobel froze. "Matthew? What do you mean?" She tried to move away, toward the accident scene, but Robert held her fast.

Robert's own eyes, however, were on his wife, searching desperately for comfort she was still too shocked to give. "His car went over the edge."

"No," breathed Cora. "It can't be."

"No. No, you can't say that. It isn't true." Isobel pulled roughly away from him, but his size and grip won out. He held her by the arms. She looked up at Robert, not wanting to believe what she saw written all over him. "I have to go to him," she ordered. "Let me. I want to see him."

"No," said Robert, knowing well the agony of seeing the lifeless bodies of his children. "You don't." Again he found his wife's gaze. "Help me," he pleaded, though it wasn't completely clear whether he wanted help with Isobel or for himself.

Cora, too shattered and shocked even to cry, mechanically pulled her cousin into an embrace and led her protesting back toward the cars. She knew what Isobel was feeling. Cora looked over Isobel's shoulder at her shaken husband and, knowing they had waited too long to share their grief over Sybil, wanted nothing more than to take him into her arms and cry with him. But she knew this was neither the time nor the place for Robert Crawley; it was far too public for him, and in his controlled world, raw emotion represented a weakness he may show to Cora on occasion, but would never display even to the rest of his household, much less to strangers on a country road. She tried to be strong for him, and promised herself that she would see him through this and help him to welcome their grandson into their lives.

"Lord Grantham," said the constable. "We need some information for the report."

Robert winced. He certainly couldn't pawn this task off on Isobel, but he felt his place was with his family. "Cora?"

"I'm all right," she whispered, reaching out to squeeze his hand. Isobel was trying to question any officer within earshot, begging for more information and insisting there must be a mistake. "I'll stay with cousin Isobel. Go."

Robert looked at Tom, who was as much in a state of shock as the rest of them at the loss of his friend. The older man knew grief on top of grief would weigh heavily for the Irishman, as it would for all of them. Past differences or not, Lord Grantham also knew that this was another young man entrusted to his care by one of his beloved daughters. "Tom? Are you all right?"

A pang of embarrassing guilt stabbed at Tom's gut as he recalled his early disdain for the Crawley's seemingly perfect life, and his ignorant desire for them to feel the pain of the downtrodden. His dearest Sybil's words resonated once again: _Don't think we don't have feelings, because we do_. Money, titles, paintings, heritage—none of it spared them the agony of the death of loved ones. And Tom knew now that they did feel; they did love, just like everyone else. They loved, and lived, and suffered, and lost. Just like him. Even Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham.

"Tom?" Robert's voice called to him again.

Looking up at his father in law, Tom just nodded.

The constable was still waiting at Robert's elbow. "Lord Grantham, a moment, please."

Robert swallowed hard and took a deep breath. He robotically answered the constable's first few questions confirming Matthew's full name, address and birthdate, but struggled when it came to next of kin. He managed to get out the names of Lady Mary Crawley and Isobel Crawley.

The questions continued. "My lord, do you know where Mr. Crawley was coming from, and where he was headed? It appears he might have been headed back to Downton Abbey?"

Unable to continue, the older man tried to distract himself. Looking around, Robert took in the scene, scanning in turn the officers, the gathering passersby, Cora, and Isobel. He stared at the opening in the woods created by the careening roadster. Where was he coming from? _Heaven_. _He was coming from_ _heaven_. He imagined Mary in the hospital holding their newborn son, Matthew at her side-and a solid and wonderfully loving future as Earl and Countess of Grantham awaiting them on an estate now secured financially, and felt himself losing control again. Words would not come, so Robert stared stoically off onto the horizon beyond the policeman.

"Lord Grantham," pressed the constable, holding his clipboard and pen at the ready. "Do you know where he was coming from?"

Tom appeared at Robert's side. _Don't make the mistake of thinking he has no feelings._ He protectively stepped between Robert and the policeman. "Leave him be. What possible difference could that make now?"

"I'm sorry, sir," said the constable, with considerably less deference than he showed the earl. "But we've got protocols to follow with traffic fatalities—"

"And I suppose they include harassing the victim's family?" Respecting the protocols of the aristocracy, Tom didn't dare touch Robert in public, but he instead pulled the officer away. "Lord Grantham's just lost his son-in-law and heir, and only hours after Mr. Crawley's own son was born. You've got the lorry driver's account. You don't need Lord Grantham. This family needs to be left alone for a while."

"But the deceased—"

"Will still be dead tomorrow." _And the day after. _If anyone knew the finality of death, it was Tom. "And the Crawleys aren't going anywhere, are they?"

Beaten, the constable closed his papers and wandered away. Tom came back to Robert, who still stood unmoving by the side of the road.

"Thank you," said Robert quietly. He suddenly shook himself. "I must tell Mama and Edith. They'll be wondering what's keeping us."

"I'll do it," said Tom. "Please. I can't help much, but at least I can spare you that."

Instinctively reluctant to accept the offer at first, Robert bristled with hesitation, and then agreed. "Stay with them. And don't let Edith leave my mother alone. She isn't as tough as she'd like us to think."

Tom slowly nodded. "None of us are," he said.

Robert gave a small smile of appreciation, clapped his only remaining son-in-law on the arms and walked back to where his wife was consoling his cousin.

Edith was standing outside the lead car speaking through the open window to her grandmother. She spoke up before Tom had even finished his approach. "What on earth is the holdup?"

"Please," said Tom. "Can you sit in the car for a moment?" He opened the door and gestured for Edith to get inside.

Edith complied. "Where's everybody gone? It's like they wandered off one-by-one into the desert only to be swallowed up by quicksand, while we sit awaiting our turn to follow-"

"Edith," Violet held up her hand, her instincts telling her something was very wrong. "Let him speak. What is it, Tom? What's happened?"

Tears filled Tom's eyes. "I'm afraid it's Matthew. There's been an accident."

Both women stared at him open-mouthed.

Violet whispered, "Is he badly injured?"

Tom managed to nod, but the words wouldn't come. A tear escaped his eye and fell down his cheek.

Edith grabbed Tom's arm. "Tell us. How bad is it?" When Tom hesitated, Edith reached for the door handle. "Well, I'm not a child. I'll go and see for myself—"

"No," said Tom. "Your father wanted you both to stay here and I promised you would." He'd not let Robert down. Not now. "There's nothing you can do. Nothing anyone can do. He's gone."

Violet gasped. "Dead?"

Hearing it put so bluntly, the realization hit Tom hard. _Dead_. _Like Sybil._ "Yes. I'm so sorry. Lord Grantham is dealing with the police, and Lady Grantham is with Mrs. Crawley."

"It can't be," said Violet, her eyes wide with shock. "Not today, of all days. Not again. It's like being forced to re-live one's darkest day."

"Poor Mary. Does she even know yet?" asked Edith, showing uncharacteristic concern for her older sister.

"I don't think so," said Tom. "I think it's only just happened."

"She mustn't be alone when she hears," said Violet. "Tell me, how is Robert?"

Tom shrugged. "How can he be? He…saw him."

"It's a horror for parents to lose the younger generation. It goes against the very fabric of nature." Violet dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. "Thank god the heir is in place."

"Granny!" cried Edith. "How can you talk about that now?"

"Don't let's pretend it isn't important," said Violet. "I'm as grief-stricken as anybody, but succession is your father's burden and has been since the day he married your mother. It's why he brought Matthew here in the first place. That his grandson is now in line makes this no less a tragedy, but I won't pretend it isn't a welcome fact."


	2. Chapter 2

ANGER

Part 1

"I wonder what's keeping the family," said Mary. "Visiting hours started a while ago. I'm surprised they're not breaking down the doors by now."

"I'm sure they'll be along soon, m'lady," said Anna, leaning down for another look at the child. "They're probably still getting settled from their trip."

Mary snuggled her son and adjusted his blanket. "I'm actually surprised Papa didn't float here on a cloud of family pride and insist on being let in. He's been on pins and needles for months now waiting for this grandchild. I'd have thought wild horses couldn't keep him from his new heir."

"Enjoy your time alone now, m'lady," said Anna. "I'm afraid you'll be surrounded by nurses, nannies, family and well-wishers once you get home, and all the staff will want to meet him. You know his lordship will want to show him off."

"You're right, of course," laughed Mary. She gently rubbed a finger along her son's cheek. "You're just a young master now, but you're going to be Earl of Grantham someday, just like your papa and your grandpapa." The baby fussed a bit, and Mary soothed him. "Oh, don't worry, you'll have a long, long time to get used to the idea. Your papa will teach you the business end, and your grandfather will teach you about our history and how to handle the people who live and work at Downton."

"And don't forget the cricket, m'lady," said Anna. "His lordship and Mr. Crawley will have him swinging a bat for the house team before he can walk."

Mary laughed. "Well, he can't do worse than Mr. Moseley, even if we sent him out to play right now in swaddling clothes." She smiled dreamily at the boy, the long-awaited Crawley heir, proudly picturing him tagging along after his father and grandfather, learning the ropes of the great estate he would run himself one day. And his day would come; Matthew had made sure of it.

"Excuse me, m'lady," said a nurse as she entered. "I'll take him for a bit."

Mary looked disappointed. "Well, all right, but you must bring him back when the family arrives. They'll want to meet the new prince."

"Yes, m'lady," mumbled the nurse. Cradling the young heir, the nurse exited, but not before shooting Anna a troubled look and directing her attention to the door.

The lady's maid looked up and noticed her ladyship hovering out of sight in the doorway, shaken and with reddened eyes, silently beckoning. Something was wrong-very, very wrong.

"Uh, excuse me, m'lady." Anna smiled at Mary. "I need to see to something. I'll be right back."

In the hallway, Anna looked around and noticed that Cora was accompanied only by a downcast Tom, with the rest of the family nowhere in sight.

"Your ladyship, is everything all right?"

Cora shook her head, trying to stay composed. "No," she whispered. "Everything is not all right." She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she had to do. "Tom will explain. I need to go to Mary." She started off into the room, but pulled back and gently took the maid's hand. "Mary will rely on you in the coming days. I know you will support her in any way possible."

Bewildered, Anna could only nod. "Of course."

Cora entered the room and Mary started to smile, "Well, it's about time. I thought you'd abandoned me—" but one look at her pale mother and the alarm was raised. When no one else followed her into the room, Mary immediately grew suspect. "What is it? What's happened?"

"Oh, my darling," said Cora. She sat on the edge of the bed beside Mary. "My dear sweet girl."

"Mama, tell me." Mary searched her mother's eyes for a clue. "Is it Granny?" Her eyes darted around the room. "Where's Papa?"

"They're fine; well, safe anyway. But, my darling, I'm afraid I do have the worst possible news." Tears began to streak Cora's face as she grasped her daughter's shaking hands. "I'm afraid there's been a terrible accident."

Mary's breath became ragged. "What sort—"

"It's Matthew. There's no easy way to say it. Matthew's had an accident."

"What? No. He was just here."

"His car went over an embankment on the way back to Downton. Something happened, we're not quite sure what, but…" she shook her head, momentarily unable to continue, "I'm afraid we've lost him."

"Lost him?" Mary's temper bubbled as she refused to read into her mother's words. She pulled her hands away. "What do you mean we've _lost_ him? He's not an umbrella. Mama, what are you trying to say?"

"Oh, Mary. I think you know what I'm trying to say. Please don't make me say the words. My dear, I am so terribly sorry." Cora tried to pull her daughter into an embrace, but Mary squirmed away and held her mother at arm's distance.

"He's dead?" cried Mary. "Are you trying to tell me that my husband is dead? He saw his newborn son and then drove off a cliff? Is that what you are saying?"

"Mary, please." Cora tried to gather Mary into her arms once again, but the new widow resisted again. "I know it doesn't seem right that Matthew should survive the war and leave us this way—"

"Stop being so American!" thundered Mary. "We didn't lose him and he didn't leave us. You're saying he's dead, Mama? Dead. My husband is dead." She fought off a shocked sob.

Cora let her rage. "I'm afraid so." She rubbed small circles on her daughter's back while Mary caught her breath.

Anna quietly re-entered the room, and from her expression Mary knew that her maid had been informed of the recent events. Keeping her place, but wanting to be nearby, Anna tidied and hung Mary's dressing gown on the hook near the bed.

"M'lady?" said Anna. "I'm ever so sorry. Is there anything at all I can do to help?"

"No," she replied, and then as if struck by a wave of composure, Mary suddenly set her jaw. "Yes," she corrected calmly. "Have Mr. Crawley's things removed from our room. I'll go through them at some point, but not just now. We'll make plans after the funeral and the christening."

"Mary," said Cora, knowing her daughter needed to grieve, but that her own obstinate self-control would be her greatest obstacle to recovery. "There's no need to worry about that yet."

Mary ignored her and tried to focus on other things. "Where is Papa?"

Cora didn't want to tell Mary that her father didn't want her to see him with evidence of the accident scene and Matthew's blood on his clothes. "He's…with Matthew," said Cora, "and dealing with the authorities."

Mary nodded. "Good. I'm glad Matthew's…" a small gasp escaped her lips, "not alone." She looked away, again determined not to cry. "Though after Sybil this may be more than Papa can bear."

Knowing Mary was in denial of her own pain, Cora felt some relief at the acknowledgement of her father's. There had been so much family pain of late, and Cora had learned many lessons on the right and wrong way to face it. Cold stoicism was definitely the wrong way. "We will all bear it together." Cora brushed a strand of hair from her daughter's face; knowing Mary's stoic control was as much of a facade as Violet's was. "You don't have to be so strong with me. Let it out, my dear. You've every right to be angry. It isn't fair, just when you were both so happy."

"Happy? What right have I to be happy?" Mary was eerily placid now, discussing the death of her husband as if it were casual dinner conversation. She gathered her covers around her and sat up straight. "I've had my taste of it, but I should've known it couldn't last. Not for someone like me. It's poor Papa I feel badly for. He's had rather more than he deserves these last few years."

Anna exchanged a look with Cora, knowing where this was headed.

"If I may," said Anna. "You do _not_ deserve this, m'lady."

"Don't I?"

"Of course not," added Cora.

Anna came closer to the bed. "And neither does that dear little baby."

"The good die young," said Mary with a shrug. "Isn't that what they say? I mean, it's quite true, isn't it? The saintly Lavinia Swire. Sybil. And now…" she couldn't bring herself to say his name, "this. Each one as good as they come. And sinners like me are left behind."

"You are _not_ a sinner, m'lady," said Anna, though at Mary's withering look she corrected herself. "Well, not a real one anyway."

"But I am," insisted Mary. "We are cursed, you know, in all of this. It's my fault, of course, all the hardships and bad times that have befallen our home and family since that awful night." She paused, but just for a moment. She closed and then opened her eyes, trying to blink away the memory. "Kemal…died in my bed and we covered it up and look what followed; Mama, you miscarried your own son, the war took its toll on Matthew and William, then the business with Lavina and Bates, and we nearly lost the estate itself. Edith was left at the altar, and now Sybil and Matthew have died. I'm not a very religious person, but I've surely angered some god somewhere by living the great aristocratic lie. You were right to judge me, Mama."

"Mary," said Cora. "Don't talk like that. Those events are tragic, but unrelated. They're all part of life. We've had our share of heartbreak, like every family these last years, and this is a tragedy no one could have predicted, and no one deserved, certainly not so soon after Sybil." She smoothed her daughter's hair and wrapped her arm around Mary's shoulder. "But you have your son now, as Tom has little Sybbie, and we must all grieve for dear Matthew and move onto a life without him. We will be there for you—as we have been for Tom. I know you don't want to hear it right now, but you are young and beautiful and strong and you will come through this."

Mary shook her head. "I could've endured it on my own; really I could. I just didn't know that my being a fallen woman meant I'd take the rest of you down with me. I suppose I will pay for my indiscretion for the rest of my life."

ANGER

Part 2

"Of course, he never wanted any of this in the first place." Isobel's sharp voice echoed through the library. The shocked family gathered and grieved, Matthew's untimely death hanging heavy in the thoughts of all, but Isobel stood in the center of the library, as yet unable to face her son's death. Dr. Clarkson, determined not to lose another Crawley girl, had directed Mary would be kept at the hospital overnight, so he could monitor her in this time of emotional upheaval. Robert had eventually arrived at the Downton Cottage Hospital, having escorted Matthew's body, and both parents had wanted their daughter home where they could offer support, but neither would challenge Clarkson on that score. She'd been given a light sedative to help her to sleep and her parents were sent home, leaving Anna to stay beside her friend and lady.

Cora sat on the sofa nearest the fireplace. An exhausted Robert stood beside his wife, with his shoulders slumped in defeat. Edith and the Dowager sat across from Cora as Tom hovered quietly in the back of the room.

Isobel paced. "If you'd been able to produce the great Grantham heir yourselves, my son would still be alive."

After a quick glance at Cora, a wounded Robert turned away, grasping the mantle and staring into the fireplace.

"That is quite enough." Violet's voice cut through the tension. "This is a tragedy for us all. Matthew has died in an accident, something that may have been avoided had he left a moment sooner or later than he did. There is no point rewriting the past or wondering what might have been. What has happened, has happened, and as with all difficult family circumstances, we must deal with the present and face the future together."

"You're right. Let's do talk about them. Remember that there only is a present and a future because Matthew had done _his_ duty," said Isobel curtly, aiming her words at Robert's back. "I know he bailed Downton out financially, and unlike you, cousin Robert, he produced a fine son to stand in line."

Robert stood unmoving, still staring into the fire as Isobel pressed on.

"And I suppose Mary has what she always wanted now," continued Isobel. "I guess you all have what you've really wanted all along. As Matthew's widow, Mary can inherit until her son succeeds to the title. A nice, neat little family package."

"Isobel, that's not fair," said Cora, trying not to be unkind to the grieving mother, but her strong protective instincts demanded she speak for her silent husband and widowed daughter. She stood, gently gave Robert's hand a supportive squeeze and crossed to Isobel. "Mary has lost her husband, and our grandson his father. I hope you'll recall we accepted Matthew as part of this family long before he married our daughter, and his loss grieves us all. You are being especially unfair to Robert. Surely you know he's come to see Matthew not only as his heir, or even his son-in-law, but as his own son. He loved him so, we all did, and you will not twist that love into malice just because I was unable to carry our unborn son to term."

Isobel quieted at Cora's firm words, embarrassed by her own outburst. She looked around the silent room, all eyes on her. "I'm sorry," she said, sincerely. "I was unjust. I know you are grieving. All of you. Do forgive me."

There was a brief awkward silence, filled finally by Cora, who knew something of lashing out in response to the devastation of losing a child. "Of course." She took Isobel's hands in hers. "We are family, and as family we must stick together through this. I can attest that anger and blame are the enemies of healing. We both know what it is to lose a child, and I won't pretend that it is a hurt that ever leaves you. But you can learn to live with it. Our grandson will help. We are Crawleys. You are part of our family, and we will always be there for you. Won't we, Robert?"

A long moment passed before Robert turned to them. He tried to turn the corners of his mouth up into the merest hint of a smile, but failed. "Of course," said Robert, his voice barely audible. "Please, excuse me." He quickly left the room, and exited out the front door.

"Robert." Cora started after him, only to be stopped by Tom's voice.

"No," he said, "you stay with Mrs. Crawley. I'll go."

Tom followed his father-in-law out onto the lawn, and came up behind him.

"She didn't mean it, you know," he said. "You didn't deserve that, but she's just lashing out."

Robert remained silent, concentrating on breathing slowly and deeply, a practiced exercise in self-control.

"This had nothing to do with you," continued Tom. "And even if it did, I know in my heart that Matthew wouldn't have undone any of it, nor would he have traded a single moment with Mary. I believe he was destined to come here because they were destined to be together, even for a short time. That their union produced a child is a blessed reminder of that destiny."

Both men heard the fate of another star-crossed couple in his passionate words as well.

Having the lord's attention, Tom continued, "He may not have understood all the trappings of the aristocracy because he wasn't raised to it, but Matthew was proud to be part of this family. He may not have always been tactful about it, but he was working to secure Downton's future because he believed in what you taught him, and I know he'd be very honored for his son to succeed you in his place."

The older man turned and looked Tom in the eye. This time the small smile was genuine. "Thank you for that."

The two stood in an awkward silence for a few moments, until Tom made a move to leave. "Well, I'll leave you in peace for a while. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help." He started back for the house.

"Tom?" Lord Grantham called.

Tom turned back, his head tilted, waiting. "Yes?"

Robert's voice was soft, but sincere. "I never did get to tell Matthew how much I appreciated his efforts to save Downton—to save me from myself. I'm not a revolutionary. I was raised to see tradition as master, and change as a threat. I do want you to know that I understand that the plan you and Matthew have for Downton is the right one. I suppose deep down I always knew it, but I'm not sure I fully understood until I faced cousin Shrimpy in Scotland. He's losing his estate because he resisted the very change we've adapted to."

Tom frowned. "I'm not surprised, but I am sorry to hear that. Truly. I know what Duneagle has meant to your family. Sybil spoke fondly of it often."

Robert's eyes glistened at the mention of his daughter recalling happy times. "Shrimpy sees us as the model of progression, and I owe that to Matthew. And to you. I owe you a debt of gratitude for your efforts, and I also owe you an apology. Not only am I guilty of resisting the inevitable regarding my estate, but my desire to protect my daughter caused me to misjudge your character and made you feel unwelcome in Sybil's home, and for that I am sorry. I should have trusted her judgment. But then, that seems to be a trend for me lately."

Tom couldn't help but admire his father-in-law. It's true the man was far from perfect, and he had made mistakes that would cripple a lesser man, but Robert Crawley never hid behind them or denied or excused them as many of his aristocratic brethren would. Once he came around, Robert never hesitated to step forward and offer a sincere apology when one was warranted, no matter to whom it was directed. It was, he felt, an honorable trait they both shared. "We've all had to adapt to change these last few years," said Tom. "It's not been easy on any of us. And you're not the only one guilty of preconceived notions that were later dispelled."

Robert nodded appreciatively. "My dear father went to great efforts to lock up the family money to preserve our way of life. I suppose I am guilty of trying to do the same with the family honor. I guess neither of us could see that the real enemy was within."


	3. Chapter 3

BARGAINING

Part 1

"Is everyone gone now?" asked Anna. They strolled back from the village, chatting easily, each needing a break from the unrelenting emotional pressures on their charges in the main house.

"I think so," said Bates. "His lordship said the last of the cousins were taking the morning train."

"The house will seem quiet now that they've all left. Now is when they'll feel it."

Bates frowned. "I'd say his lordship's feeling it pretty badly already. He hardly says a word. I think he fears another tragedy around every corner."

"Lady Mary, too," said Anna. "Though she's putting a good face on it. Between the baby and her pacing about all night, I don't think she's slept since she came home from hospital. I know her ladyship's worried about her; Lady Mary's just going through the motions, accepting both condolences and baby gifts with the same detached manner." She thought for a moment. "At least this time the lord and lady are going through it together. It was awful after Lady Sybil died, with so much tension in the house."

"So you said." Bates pursed his lips in thought, reminded of that terrible period for himself and his wartime comrade. "I wish I could've been there for his lordship. It was hard enough on him when they lost the baby before the war. I can't imagine what it was like to lose Lady Sybil like that."

"And then to feel like he lost his wife as well."

"They got through that," said Bates, "they'll get through this."

"Is that Isis?" asked Anna as they approached their cottage. The familiar yellow lab that had been lying on their doorstep got to her feet and wagged her tail.

Bates set the bags of shopping on the ground, hung his cane on his arm and nuzzled the dog's neck with both hands. When a quick look around showed no sign of her master, he said, "What are you doing so far from home, eh, girl?"

She rolled onto her back and let Bates rub her belly.

"You've a way with women," laughed Anna. "She likes you."

Bates smiled. "Well, since she's never very far from his lordship, we spend a lot of time together. Don't we, girl?" He turned to Anna. "I'll give her some water and take her back to the house when we get these put away."

They entered the cottage, but pulled up short at the sight of Lord Grantham sitting in the armchair near the fireplace, his coat still on, and his hat in his lap.

"My lord," said Bates. "I'm sorry. Were you looking for me?"

The wearied earl shook his head. "Forgive me," said Robert, getting to his feet. "I was just…actually, I don't know why I'm here. I was walking and… I just wanted to get out of the fishbowl for a moment. I knocked, but…the door was open." He made a move toward the door. "I shouldn't have barged in. Please, do forgive the intrusion."

"Stay," said Anna. "Please, my lord. You're welcome here. It's your cottage anyway." She smiled at him. "Can I make you a cup of tea?"

"You're kind," said Robert, who really didn't want to leave, but couldn't pinpoint why. "Thank you."

Anna left, but not before exchanging a glance with Bates. Though it was John's half-day off, she knew the lord was there to see her husband, and she wanted to give her employer the privacy he needed to get what he came for. She headed off to the kitchen to make the world's slowest cup of tea.

Their line between friendship and service was mutually blurred, but never having hosted an earl, Bates wasn't sure if it was his place to offer Robert a seat or not, or even if in these circumstances he should sit in his presence himself without being invited to. This was surely not a call paid by a lord to his valet, but Bates didn't want to overstep, not with his employer and friend on fragile emotional ground already. Both men remained standing for a moment, until Robert walked to the window and stared quietly out. It was a habit Bates had gotten used to. Robert was always drawn to windows during times of personal duress, and Bates had just assumed it was as much the lure of the comfort promised by the familiar sprawling outdoor views as a longing for the freedom from a lifetime of suffocating responsibilities at Downton.

"I'm afraid the view isn't quite the same as the one you're used to at the big house," said Bates.

"Any view from a man's home is the best view for him." Robert forced a smile. "When we were in Africa, I'd lay awake nights trying to visualize every spot on the estate. Everything, the gardens, the cottages, the stables and back alleys. I'd imagine I was walking the dogs or touring the grounds on horseback with my father the way I used to when I was a boy. I took many nights to get through it all, and then I'd start again."

Bates nodded, recalling their shared experiences. Even in wartime, the lord had resorted to the windows in his mind's eye. "I heard so much about Downton back then I could picture it myself."

Robert turned, blushing slightly. "I must have been tiresome."

"Not at all. You knew exactly who you were and what you would be. I admired your family loyalty and sense of purpose, my lord. I still do."

Robert gave a small nod of appreciation and went back to staring out the window. It was a comfortable silence broken only by the sounds of cups and utensils from the Bates' kitchen.

After a few moments, the valet came closer and stood behind Robert. "My lord, I'm going to make an impertinent suggestion. One you are, of course, free to refuse."

Intrigued, Robert turned to look at Bates. "Go on then."

"Would you like to go for a drink someplace away from here? We could talk," he shrugged, "or not talk. I'd even let you buy me a beer."

Standing stiffly, the lord arched an eyebrow. "It is quite impertinent," he said, but there was no mistaking the glimmer of friendship in his eyes. "And appreciated. I'll order the car and meet you back at the house in twenty minutes."

Bates nodded in agreement. "Very good."

"Please give my apologies to Anna about the tea." Robert replaced his hat and quietly left, Isis jumping happily up at the sight of her master, and they started the long walk back.

Anna came round the corner with a tray just as the door closed behind Robert. "Am I to understand I'm being abandoned on our off day?"

Bates took the tray and set it down. "His lordship sends his regrets about the tea." He took Anna into his arms. "And I send mine about our afternoon plans. He hadn't wanted to talk much before now. I guess he's ready."

"It's all right." Anna kissed him quickly. "I'll keep. I should see to Lady Mary anyway. Maybe she's ready to face it, too."

BARGAINING

PART 2

Cora tapped lightly at the nursery door and entered. She brightened upon seeing her grandson in the arms of his mother, though at the moment, the child was howling.

"How is he today?" Cora peeked over the blankets at the red-faced infant.

"Fine," said Mary. "He certainly has a healthy appetite and, as you can plainly hear, very healthy lungs."

"Sounds a lot like your father." Cora nodded to the nurse, who was hovering nearby, and the young woman took the baby and sat in the rocking chair to comfort him. Cora took her daughter's hand. "Mary, come downstairs for tea. Everyone's left, even your father's gone out. Granny's gone home and Edith's gone for a walk with Tom and Sybbie. It will just be the two of us."

They sat in quiet for a time, sipping and thinking. Cora knew she needed to get Mary to open up, but she also knew that though Mary was very much her father's daughter, her temperament more closely resembled that of her grandmother—a fact that promised Cora no easy ride on any subject.

"Mary," started Cora.

"Don't you start," interrupted Mary. "I'm fine. Really I am."

Cora shook her head mournfully. "How can you be? Darling, it isn't healthy to hold things inside, or to deny the truth of what's happened."

"I deny nothing," said Mary. "I was made a new mother and a widow in the same day. Matthew has died, but I have our son, and he will one day be master here as we planned—"

"Oh, Mary," snapped Cora, a bit more harshly than she intended. "Stop pretending all that silliness is what matters. Of course, your father and I are pleased that you and Matthew married and that you have given life to that wonderful little boy to stand as heir, but my dear, the entail and succession to the title are secondary to the loss you've endured. You have lost your dear husband and your best friend. You cannot continue pretending that you are over it, because I know quite well you are not."

Cora's words hung in the air above the teapot. Mary took her cup in hand and looked away, as if unable or unwilling to make eye contact with them.

It was a long silence that begged to be filled, but Cora held her tongue.

Finally, Mary set her cup back down onto the tray and looked at her mother.

"I remember how mortified I was the first time I realized that it was unusual that you and Papa shared a bed." She shifted uncomfortably on her seat, her perfect posture crumbling a bit. She spoke haltingly, as if every phrase was difficult to express, but she continued. "I was no more than about ten, and I'd overheard two of the younger housemaids talking. I eavesdropped, if I'm honest. Anyway, one of them was quite new, and she was so surprised when she made up your rooms to always find Papa's dressing room bed untouched. The other maid told her with a giggle that you and Papa actually slept together every night. She said that Granny knew and didn't approve either. Then she blamed it on you being American, and the two maids laughed like it was some dirty joke."

Mary stopped and waggled her eyebrows, reliving her childhood confusion. "Of course, I didn't understand it all, but I knew if they were laughing and Granny disapproved, something wasn't proper about it. And I recall asking my little friends about their parents, careful not to give anything away, and realizing that you two were the exception. I thought that made you flawed somehow, and it embarrassed me."

Cora wanted to comment, but remained silent and let her daughter talk.

"Things became clearer as I got older, of course, but I didn't fully understand for a long time, even after…Kemal—really not until I became engaged to Matthew. You see, I came to realize that those other marriages were more like business arrangements, like my marriage to Patrick or Richard or any of those other suitors, would have been. And for a long while I thought, hoped, that would be enough. But yours was…is different."

Cora moved to the sofa and took her daughter's hand. "You never know where you'll find happiness, my dear. I'm sure you know your father and I began as a…business arrangement."

"Yes," said Mary, "but you've admitted that you loved him from the first. And I don't care what you say, Papa would never have married someone he was incapable of loving, not even to save Downton. He just needed time to get past all the obligations and family duty and figure it all out for himself."

"Like you did with Matthew?"

"Yes." Mary nodded. "Only you and Papa sorted out your issues while you were married, and Matthew and I worked them out apart and then married. " She hesitated for a moment, the tears finally starting to flow. "Oh, Mama, if only I had accepted Matthew when he first arrived, we'd have had so much more time, but I was so stubborn and resentful that he was pushing in, and he just wasn't good enough for me." She fought back a sob. "I find myself resenting those lost years. We would've had a houseful of children by now, and he never would have been on that road in the car. Don't you see? Things would have been different for all of us."

Cora soothed her daughter and held her close. "We can't know what might have been, for any of us. And don't romanticize those early days of marriage because they would have been very difficult for both of you. Thankfully, they didn't last too long for your father and me, but they aren't something I'd have wished on you. I spent many nights crying alone in our bed while your father slept in his dressing room in those first months, and with your grandparents practically hovering outside clamoring for an heir. You and Matthew found your way to each other in your own time, and with all your cards on the table. Looking at your time together and your beautiful boy, how can we say that wasn't best?"

Mary took a ragged breath, another touch of anger breaking through her tears. "It's terribly awkward to say it, but I wanted it all. I'm not ashamed to admit I wanted to be Countess of Grantham and all that comes with it. I felt I deserved it…but deep down what I really wanted was a marriage like yours; someone to love me, even when people think he shouldn't. Thirty-odd years and I see the way you still take his arm when you're out walking or the way you look at each other when you dance or kiss or that ridiculous sly grin on Papa's face when I've caught him in your bedroom over the years. It used to embarrass me, but now I admire you for it. I really do. It's easier to be in love these days than it was for you, yet you both did it and kept your dignity and position. That's what I wanted."

"Mary, this isn't about dignity or position, and you know it." Cora's heart broke for her. "And Matthew did love you so. You had the storybook marriage people dream about."

"Had," spat Mary. She was sobbing now. "God, it should have been me! I'm the one no one would have missed. Downton needs Matthew. Papa needs him. I'm just the incubator for the future, and my job is done."

Cora sat up straight. "Mary, don't you dare say that. It isn't true."

Mary wiped her eyes and caught her breath. She seemed to calm a bit, but the tears still flowed. "It's ironic after judging you and Papa, but now I can't imagine sleeping…living without Matthew, just as it was awful seeing you and Papa estranged after Sybil died. He was so lost without you, and now I feel the same. Only mine is forever. I've never been a romantic, but you and Papa belong together and even I, the ice princess of Downton, can see that. I dared to hope for the same, but I'm afraid happiness was just a mirage for me. I thought in Matthew I'd found my oasis, but like all illusions, it was temporary and I came away with only a fistful of sand."

Cora tenderly interlaced her fingers with her daughter's. "Not only. You have your son. And you had a glorious love affair with the man of your dreams, however short. Most people don't ever get to experience that, especially people like us, you said that yourself. Look at poor Susan and Shrimpy, still stuck as strangers after a lifetime of marriage. Hold on to your perfect love, my dear, but don't let it beat you down. Find strength in it and try always to see yourself as Matthew would see you."

_I believe more in this Stage will come, covering Robert's chat with Bates, and Isobel and Violet. Just didn't want it to get too long for one chapter. Thanks for reading and for all the positive feedback. It helps keep me going!_


	4. Chapter 4

BARGAINING

Part 3

Valet John Bates and Lord Robert Grantham entered the dark pub anonymously, just two men stepping in for a pint. They hadn't said much on the ride, with Bates riding up front with the driver and Robert sitting alone behind them. Robert had started to tell Bates he needn't ride with the chauffer, but the valet had hopped in before the words were out of the lord's mouth. They may be closer to friends in private, but publicly they would remain employer and valet. It was no secret upstairs or down that the two shared a bond that challenged the usual class divide, but Bates had no desire to embarrass Robert, or to flaunt their unorthodox friendship.

Once seated at a table in a corner, they sat in a companionable silence for some time; enough for Robert to finish two whiskeys while Bates slowly nursed a single pint. After several false starts, it was the valet who finally spoke up.

"With all due respect, my lord, you are wrong."

Robert raised an eyebrow at his drinking partner. "About?"

"About what you are thinking."

"Oh, you know what I'm thinking, do you?" He cocked his head dismissively and took another draw from his drink. "I wasn't aware that reading minds was one of your many talents."

"It's not mind reading," said Bates, "I believe I know your thoughts because they are the same ones you had in Africa. They were as unjust then as they are now."

Robert looked up over his glass, partly in surprise at being called out by his valet, and partly because, valet or not, he knew Bates had him pegged.

The usually reserved Bates continued speaking. "You thought it when I was wounded; whenever anyone in your command was wounded or killed in action. You think it should have been you."

Exposed, Robert fidgeted in his seat, but didn't bother to deny it. He didn't often speak of their time at war, not even to his former batman. It seemed a world away from Downton, and he was determined that at least one unpleasant experience remain in the past. "Bates, you took a bullet meant for me," said Robert. "You cannot deny—"

"I deny nothing, my lord," Bates cut him off, "just as I regret nothing. Everything I am, everything I have or have become is a result of every other moment in my life, however painful."

"So, you are saying you believe life is part of a greater plan?"

Bates gave a sad smile. "I used to want to believe it. I am not so sure I do anymore, but I do know that I wouldn't trade even the most unpleasant events in my life if I could not end up where I am today."

Robert came as close as he could to a smile himself. "With Anna?"

Bates nodded. "And at Downton. My injury changed my life. I'll admit at first, it was for the worse, but after a long rocky road look where it's taken me. Would I be here now if things had gone differently in Africa? Or if I hadn't had the adversity I faced afterward and turned to you? Would I have met Anna?"

Robert thought about what Bates had endured since their time as comrades. "I know it must seem petty, my grievances. My life must appear rather charmed in comparison to others, and my problems minor. Money, heirs, titles."

"Death is a reality that crosses social boundaries, my lord. Your losses have been great."

Robert nodded in painful acknowledgement. "For hundreds of years, Crawley men have served Downton. I believed that as long as I stayed the course and saw to my duty, my life was mapped out for me and things would progress as they always have. Now, I must confess I see no great plan in the past few years of my life, nor for my future, for that matter." He sipped his drink, steeling himself for the rest of it. "I was prepared for the loss of my father, in some ways my entire life was about preparing me for it. And I sadly accept that my mother's time may be growing short. But to lose children…" He drifted off, unable to voice more. He changed course. "The war seems to have knocked the stuffing out of me. I lost my way—more so than you can imagine." He stopped there, not prepared to share more, even with Bates. "Every time I think I've found my footing, I get knocked back again. And now this…"

Bates stared at Robert, both touched and saddened by the lord's honest self-appraisal. "You have managed. As we all have. Things are different and change is hard for everyone."

"That's what Tom said."

"He would know." They drank in silence for a few moments. All too familiar with the power of alcohol, Bates could see the lord's perfect posture slouch slightly as the whiskey did its' bidding. He'd have to cut him off soon, or face Carson's ire for bringing Lord Grantham home in his cups, though if anyone deserved to drink to forget this week, it was Robert Crawley.

"His life was only just beginning," mumbled Robert softly. "He had it all ahead of him. He was a dashing future earl with a newborn son to raise. I just don't understand it, Bates. After the turmoil and chaos and uncertainty in our house these last years, things were finally stable again. How can this have happened?"

Robert's voice choked, but Bates let him speak. He'd seen him cry before, just as he had heard the earl's honest proclamation of fatherly love for Matthew long before he married Lady Mary. He knew that one of the aspects of their friendship Robert valued most was Bates' willingness to listen without challenge or judgment.

"My work here was done," continued Robert. "I'd survived it. Survived not having a son of my own, survived the loss of two cousins and heirs on the Titanic. Even Sybil." A tear escaped Robert's eye, and he quickly wiped it away, as if he could wipe the painful memory aside with it. He glanced around the deserted pub, wanting reassurance that no one was taking any notice of the Earl of Grantham. "I survived my own financial folly. I had two heirs in place. Mary would sit as Countess someday. The estate was stable again. I was ready to sit back and bounce my grandchildren on my knee until the time came for my portrait to join the others on the dining room wall. Downton didn't need me anymore, Bates. It doesn't need me. It needs Matthew."

A waiter approached the table from behind Robert, and Bates quietly waved him off. Already wallowing in the depths of despair, the last thing the Earl of Grantham needed was a refill. "With respect, my lord, I think Downton has needed you more than ever lately. It still does. In a house and village whose very existence is so deeply rooted in tradition, you are the constant. I can only speak for those downstairs, but people who've chosen a life of service need the assurance and purpose that the earl's continued presence gives them, even especially in these difficult times."

Robert harrumphed. "And I nearly cost them their jobs by foolishly playing at being a tycoon."

Bates shrugged at him. "I'm sure financial troubles are not unique to any era. You've said your father faced losing Downton himself. You and Lady Grantham saved it then, and you found a way to save it again now. It doesn't matter how. You saw the estate through a world war, and the coming of a new age full of social and political changes."

"And I fought those changes every step of the way," snorted Robert, "and I gambled away my wife's fortune. Downton survived in spite of me, Bates, not because of me."

"Does it matter? Someone once told me that the true test is not how you got into a crisis, but how you come out of it."

"It's bad form to throw a man's words back at him."

"Still, Downton survived. You survived. You have no idea what your ancestors did or didn't do when they ruled Downton, only that they managed to hand it down more or less intact. And that is all your descendants need to know." Bates spoke firmly, confident that he was giving his lord what he needed. Still, there was another, more personal, matter left unspoken. Bates knew it would be the arrow to the other man's heart. "And as for being needed, well, you've a boy to raise now. A future Earl of Grantham."

Robert's eyes glistened at the thought of his grandson. He shook his head sadly. "A boy needs his father. And a titled boy needs him more than most."

"My father did me no good," said Bates, though there was no malice in his words. "I learned what it is to be a man by watching other men that I respected. I'm still learning." He raised his glass in salute to his employer and friend. "There are lots of people in the house who will care for him and love him, but he is your heir and he will need you to show him who he is and what that means. I daresay not even Mr. Crawley could have done that. Not yet. I mean no disrespect, but he was not yet ready to sit at the head of the table. He may have been someday, but be assured, my lord, that upstairs and down, you are still Downton. They don't expect perfection, no one can, but your family still love and need you to pilot the ship."

Robert reached for his glass, only to find it empty. "I hope you are right. I just hope I can see us through this newest nightmare. I suppose I must, for my grandson's sake."

"Nights are darkest just before the dawn, isn't that what they say?"

"You've had a few dark nights yourself," said Robert.

"And knowing Anna and you and the others wouldn't let me give up, gave me the strength to wait for the dawn." Satisfied with Robert's nod that at least some progress had been made, Bates checked his watch. "Now," said Bates, "It's nearly time for tea. I think we need to get you back or we'll get a dressing down from Mr. Carson and her ladyship."

"I am lord of the manor, Bates. I don't fear my wife," said Robert with mock firmness. "Carson, however, is another story." He stood, only momentarily unsteady while his head cleared, and clapped his valet on the back with one hand. "Thank you. I think I did need to get away for a bit, but I suppose I owe you an afternoon off."

Bates shook his head, nearly imperceptibly. "On the contrary, my lord, as it is my off hours, I can choose to spend them any way I wish."

"Then I suppose I owe Anna." Robert let Bates help him on with his coat, and grabbed his hat. "Let's go home." He paid their tab, left a generous tip for the barman and led them out.

Again, Bates insisted on riding with the chauffer, and it was just as well as Robert dozed off and on during the ride home. Bates assumed the lord, like most of his family, had little rest the past several nights. As they pulled up the long drive, Bates made a quiet request of the driver. "Drop me at the servant's entrance." It was the usual practice when any of the servants traveled with the family, but he didn't want to raise Robert's ire at the chauffer if the driver had made that assumption himself.

"Nonsense, this was a social outing," said Robert sleepily, though he might have thought better of it had they been somewhere other than a pub, or if he had known Carson would be waiting when the car pulled up in front.

Bates sheepishly exited the vehicle and shrugged helplessly at Carson's raised eyebrow, trying to silently convey his lordship's wishes as a footman opened the car door for Robert. The valet dutifully stood off to the side so as to allow Robert and Carson to enter the house first, but Carson couldn't resist a jab.

"I assume you will be joining the family at table tonight, too, Mr. Bates?"

"Relax, Carson." Robert cocked an eyebrow of his own as he passed his butler. "It's his afternoon off. He can spend it any way he chooses."

_More to come; wrapping Bargaining with Mary & Tom, Robert & Cora; Edith, and Isobel is feeling a bit lost…and more stages to follow._


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

DEPRESSION

_Continuous from chapter 4, as Robert and Bates arrive home from the pub. _

_This chapter focuses on Bates/Carson, Robert/Cora and Mary/Tom._

"The others have finished, my lord," said Carson, "but her ladyship has chosen to take tea in her rooms."

"Did Mary come down?" asked Robert. His daughter had spent most of her time upstairs with her son since returning from hospital.

"I'm afraid not, my lord," said Carson. "I'll arrange for your tea—"

"Don't bother," said Robert. "I'm not hungry. I'll just keep her ladyship company."

Carson couldn't hide a small, satisfied smirk as he watched Robert enter the house, quite pleased to see there was some life left in his lordship. Other than Carson's expression of condolences, it was more conversation than the butler had shared with his employer since word of Mr. Crawley's loss. Lady Grantham had taken charge of communicating most of the arrangements for the service, guests and meals. The lord had politely and perfunctorily seen to his duties and visitors, but had otherwise sought the privacy of the upstairs rooms. Even Lady Mary had been virtually invisible herself, except for obligatory appearances with the family. That left the butler busy with houseguests and household obligations, but the silence from the lord and Lady Mary were painfully deafening to their loyal servant, whose caring heart grieved for their loss but whose position and bearing limited his forays into their personal lives. Carson knew his time with Lady Mary would eventually come. He had a solid working relationship with the earl, and they operated on years of mutual respect and regard; perhaps because he had served as valet at various times, Carson did occasionally speak quite freely with Robert about the household or employees, but they rarely ventured too far into the uncharted waters of personal affairs.

Knowing Bates' position and history with Lord Grantham afforded him a deeper personal connection, as evidenced by the day's unprecedented social outing, Carson waited for the valet to approach and took him aside after the footman had departed. He spoke in lowered tones, both formal and friendly at the same time.

"As his lordship is right and it is your off hours, I can assume your excursion with Lord Grantham was one of a personal nature?"

"It was, Mr. Carson."

"I don't mean to pry, Mr. Bates," said Carson quietly. "But I am concerned for his lordship. He's hardly spoken a word aloud this past week."

Though there was no real question asked, Bates took a deep breath, knowing how hard it was for Carson to seek reassurance on Lord Grantham's condition. He figured as long as he didn't disclose the content of Robert's private conversation, he wasn't violating the privilege of Robert's friendship. "As you'd expect, Mr. Carson, he's dealing with a lot at the moment. They all are. I think he will come through it."

Carson nodded, somewhat relieved, but as Bates started to move away, the butler spoke again. "Ah, Mr. Bates. You will recall that when you first arrived at Downton, I doubted your ability to fulfill your role in this house. I must also confess that I was dubious of your connection to his lordship and rather suspicious of your motives. Obviously, I am pleased to say my concerns on all accounts were completely unfounded. Lord Grantham's trust and loyalty to you is obviously well placed and well earned."

"I might say the same for you, Mr. Carson."

The two men stood both regarding each other and sharing regard for Robert Crawley, passing much more unspoken than was heard.

Robert loosened and pulled off his tie, giving Cora quite literal confirmation that he was not quite as buttoned up as he ought to be at this hour of the afternoon, and once he leaned down to kiss her cheek she got a whiff of why. She needn't ask where he was all afternoon, but did anyway just to make conversation.

"Hello, darling. I haven't seen you since breakfast."

Robert nodded. "Bates talked me off the ledge. Or tried to."

Cora gave him a graceful smile. "I'm glad to hear it. I suppose it helps to talk to someone other than me once in a while." She wasn't angry exactly, but fatigue and emotional exhaustion made her more sensitive than the situation warranted.

"That's not it at all." He took her hand and kissed it. "I was out for a walk, and…" he drifted off, not really knowing how to explain his uninvited wandering into the servants' home. "I was near the cottages. Bates offered to go for a drink—"

"He invited you?" Her surprise sincere, Cora checked the mirror and adjusted her dress, still speaking to her husband's reflection. "That seems very forward for a valet."

Robert frowned at her. "He is more than my valet and you know that very well."

Cora turned to look at him, deciding not to ask whether it was also Mr. Bates' idea that Robert have more than one drink in the middle of the afternoon. "I know, darling," she softened. "I am sorry. I suppose I'm envious that you got away for a few hours." She kissed him on the cheek. "You deserve it. I do hope it was helpful for you."

"I had thought it was. Now that I'm back, I'm not so sure." Drifting to their window, Robert stared through the sheer curtains at the estate beyond. He caught sight of Tom walking alone with his daughter, and knew he had heard Mary in the nursery with her son. The suffocating doubt and grief again pressed against his chest and enveloped his heart. "The more I think of it, the more I walk 'round this house, I find it hard to live the things we discussed. It's their time now, Cora. This new age we've been thrust into belongs to the young. Sybil and Matthew should be here. I'm older, we've had our life, raised our children." He walked back and sat on the edge of their bed. "Cora, this new world has no need of men like me anymore. I can't shake the feeling that fate has made a tragic error; that it should have been me, not Matthew."

If he were expecting the same sympathy he got in the pub from his wife, he was quickly disappointed.

"How dare you?" Her voice was sharp and tinged with anger. "I see whiskey is not the only thing you've been soaking in. You are drowning in self-pity as well. I see so much of you in Mary, Robert, and I wish I didn't. You both think the whole world revolves around you. She's blaming herself, as if this string of Crawley bad luck is some consequence for her…indiscretion with Mr. Pamuk. Now, you are blaming the universe for not taking you instead, simply because you've had a rough time the last few years. I've got news for you, Lord Grantham. You are _not_ that important, and neither are your perceived failures." She knelt before him, forcing him to look at her, and took his hands in hers. "Matthew's death was senseless and so, so unfair. And so was our dear Sybil's. And it isn't right that our grandchildren are without parents, or that you've lost your precious heir. But don't you think for a moment that putting my husband into a grave instead would be any less of a loss. Certainly not for me. I don't care how old you are, or how long we have been married. I am not ready to be without you beside me at our dining table, or in my bed or in my life. Grieve, my darling. Mourn. Be angry, but don't you dare wish yourself away from me, Robert Crawley. Our life together is just as valuable as anyone else's."

He thought of his two daughters, and the tragic outcomes of their respective marriages and childbirths. He knew Cora was partly right; their love was invaluable, but he would without question trade places with Sybil or Matthew if only he could preserve their young lives.

Sensing his hesitation, Cora lightly fingered the hair on the back of her husband's neck and traced his jawline. "I was barely twenty years old when I signed over a fortune and pledged myself to you for a lifetime. I expect to get more than thirty years out of that deal."

"Oh, Cora." He so wanted to take her fully into his arms. "I'd wager your father would say I invalidated that deal when I lost your money. Technically, you should be free of it, and me."

"You don't get off that easily," said Cora with feigned sternness. "That just means you're in my debt. You owe me, mister. And I intend to collect in full. For better or worse, remember?"

She kissed him gently, and he brought her hands to his lips. How many times had they repeated these simple loving gestures? How many more times would fate allow them?

"My darling," he whispered. "Don't ever leave me. You are the only thing in my world that makes sense these days."

Tom followed a waddling Sybbie down the hallway towards the nursery. Before he could stop his daughter, she'd pushed open the partially opened door and squealed in delight at the sight of her baby cousin. Tom rounded the corner and stepped lightly into the room, nodding silently at Mary who sat in a rocker by the window, her son in her widow's arms.

"Sorry," said Tom. "Come on, Sybbie, let Aunt Mary get baby George to sleep."

"No," said Mary. "It's fine. Really." She tried to smile at her niece, who was on tippy toes trying to see the baby. Mary turned her son so Sybbie could see him better, and the little girl gently put her finger in George's hand and giggled.

The two adults watched her, envious of her ignorance of the recent family tragedy.

Sybbie's nanny poked her head into the room. "There you are, Miss Sybil." She turned to the girl's father. "Time for her nap, Mr. Branson."

"No," Sybbie started to protest as the nanny scooped her up.

Her father leaned in for a kiss on the cheek. "Off you go, darlin'."

"It's all right," said Mary. "It's nearly time for baby's nap, too."

Sybbie peered over her nanny's shoulder as she was ushered out. "Baby sleep."

Tom's eyes followed his daughter until she was out of sight. "That sounded like a command."

"She is a Crawley, after all."

Tom nodded knowingly. "I'm glad they'll grow up together, but I fear she's going to be quite the bossy boots."

"Oh, I don't know," said Mary, gently patting her son's back. "He'll be Earl of Grantham someday. Boys seem to grow into that. I doubt he'll be a pushover for long."

"Not with you as his mother."

A small, welcome chuckle escaped Mary's lips. "I'm afraid you're right. We Crawleys do have a bit of a stubborn streak. And poor George got a double dose."

They grew silent, each deep in thought remembering the missing Crawleys who would never see their children grow. Mary turned away to look out the window.

She stared wistfully for a while. "It's nice to think of children running about in the gardens again," said Mary. "I know it's not your ideal, but Downton was a lovely place to grow up. It was like a fairyland. It seemed you could explore a secret new spot every day for years."

"It is big, I'll give you that," said Tom. "It's hard to imagine your father playing on the lawns in short trousers, but it's easy to imagine you and Edith and Sybil going for walks and picking flowers."

Mary chuckled. "You imagine wrong. I'm sure we did our share together, but if I'm honest, I spent most of my hours following Papa and Carson around." Her eyes warmed at the memory. "Poor Carson, bless him, I think I stayed up nights thinking of things to order him to do. I think I sent him and Papa out into the rain once with torches to search for my invisible cat. I refused to go to bed until they returned."

Tom laughed. "Did they find it?"

"They claimed they did. Of course, I told them they'd brought the wrong one. I'm sure I was horrid. It's a wonder either of them still speak to me."

"What about Edith?" asked Tom. "Was she full of mischief?"

"Not really," said Mary. "At least not in the same way. She was more likely to help Mama or Granny with their sewing or creative things. She played piano; well, we all did, but she's the only one who really took to it."

He almost hesitated to ask, but couldn't resist. "And Sybil?"

Mary smiled up at him and shrugged. "Sybil," she said warmly, "was always sneaking away from her lessons. We'd find her up a tree somewhere, rescuing things or bringing home strays." She cocked her head, half-teasing. "No offense."

Tom nodded, proud to be the last stray she had taken in. "She must have driven your grandmother mad."

"She did," said Mary. "She'd come back with scraped knees and torn dresses, and I'm pretty sure it was Sybil who put a toad in the pocket of Nanny's favorite sweater, though I blamed Edith for it. Mama didn't mind her antics too much, though. Papa pretended to, of course, especially when Granny was around, but he'd always give in. Being raised the way he was, I think he secretly liked her independent spirit, and it probably reminded him of Mama. Sybil was our American sister. You know, Mama's money may have saved Downton, but she kind of shook things up around here when she married Papa. Not only did my parents always share a bedroom, we girls were brought up around our parents, every day. We practically had the run of the house, unless they had people in. Papa and Aunt Rosamund didn't have that sort of access, not even to Granny. But Mama insisted she have a hand in raising us, and whereas Papa and Rosamund were left behind while their parents traveled the world, my parents rarely left Downton, and if they did we usually went along."

Tom touched the sleeping baby's cheek. "It's hard to imagine leaving them behind, even for a holiday." He admired his nephew for a few moments, trying hard to imagine what sort of future awaited the young lord. Already bearing one of his grandfather's courtesy titles until he came into his earldom, he didn't look particularly aristocratic; in fact, he looked peaceful in slumber, with not a care in his new world. It wasn't that long ago that Tom would have hated everything this child represented, but now he found himself wanting to ensure there was a Downton left for the remaining heir to inherit.

Mary broke their shared silence.

"Tom," she said. "Thank you."

"What for?"

"For not asking how I am."

"I know how you are."

"I know you do," said Mary. "Better than anyone."

"I'd like to tell you it gets easier, and I guess in some ways it does, a little, but I still think about her," said Tom quietly. "Every day. Sometimes I look at Sybbie and I see Sybil, just for a moment, in her eyes, or her smile, or some little mannerism. And then sometimes, I get caught up in working around the estate, or playing with Sybbie or talking to someone and it hits me that I haven't thought about Sybil, and that terrifies me more than anything."

Mary rose from her chair and gently placed her son in his crib. She took her brother-in-law's hand and squeezed it until Tom squeezed back.

"Don't go anywhere," said Mary. "Please. He won't admit it, but Papa will need you now."

Tom nodded at her, knowing what she had said was true, but also knowing there was more. Mary was her father's daughter, though, and neither dealt comfortably with expressions of emotional honesty. He started to leave, but was stopped by Mary's voice.

"Tom?" She waited for him to turn back to her. "When I was younger I hated the idea of having a brother. I guess I was jealous that he'd automatically be the crown prince of Downton. Then Matthew came, and I tried to hate him for the same reason." She tried to smile past the memory. "I hope Sybbie doesn't come to resent George."

"I'm sure she won't," said Tom. "Your grandmother once told me that this family sticks together. I'll raise Sybbie to be proud of him."

'Thank you for that," said Mary. "And I can honestly say I'm finally glad to have a brother."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

_Depression_

Part 2

_(A quick end to the nursery scene with Mary and Tom, with a bit of a guess at Mary's inner turmoil, as was recently hinted at for series 4. It seemed to fit here.)_

Anna quietly stood in the doorway of the nursery until Mary acknowledged her.

"Anna." Mary's voice went flat, as if she knew the reason for the visit, while an irrational antagonism suddenly crept into the room.

"Sorry to interrupt," said the lady's maid. "I've sorted out some things for you to wear for dinner tonight, but I think you'll have to try them on first."

Mary winced, unable to bear the thought of sitting at any dining table that had a big hole where Matthew should be. Needing to aim her warring emotions somewhere, she shrugged and spoke to Tom, but suddenly without the friendliness of their recent conversation. "It is difficult to know exactly how things will fit so soon after delivering the baby. We hadn't exactly anticipated a post-partum mourning wardrobe."

Uncomfortable with her flippant remark, Tom just nodded knowingly at her.

To her maid, Mary said, "I'm not very hungry. I think I'll pass on dinner."

She turned away, dismissively, but Anna tentatively stepped forward and gently tried to prod her lady. "You should try to eat something."

"Then send something up." It was sharper than Mary had intended, and Tom squirmed at the dramatic change in atmosphere as Anna gave a deferential bow.

"Well, you must be tired," Tom said. "I should clean up for dinner myself. Excuse me." He patted Mary's arm, gave a small apologetic nod to Anna, and started for the door.

"Tom?" Mary stopped him. A wave of remorse and sadness consumed her. She regretted the way she had spoken, and didn't seem to know exactly how to continue with either of them. The last people she should be angry with were Tom and Anna, the closest thing to friends she had left in the world. She suddenly had trouble meeting Tom's eyes. She looked away and into the crib that held her sleeping son.

"Yes?" Tom asked. "Is there something I can do?"

"No." Mary exhaled sharply. "I'm not sure, actually. Nevermind."

Tom turned once more to take his leave of her.

"Wait," she said, trying to smile and sound conversational again. "You're…so good with little Sybbie."

Tom shrugged and nodded. "She's my daughter. And all I have left of her mother." He looked pointedly at his sister-in-law. "Before they took Sybil away I made her a promise that I'd always look after our little girl; that I'd be both mother and father if I had to."

"Of course," said Mary, in that off-handed way of hers; the way that said there was much, much more left unsaid. _Ghoulish_. Her father's words drifted into her consciousness. _I think it's ghoulish to call her after Sybil._ How harsh they seemed at the time, but now she understood her father's pain and desire for distance. She wanted to ask how Tom could stand to utter Sybil's name, even with it attached to that darling little girl. How could he possibly find comfort in his daughter's resemblance to her mother? Her eyes quickly darted around the room, both noticing and avoiding Tom and Anna; and when they finally fell upon her son, tears began to flow.

Tom glanced at Anna, and realizing the maid could not appropriately step forward, especially with him in the room, spoke first, "I'm sorry. My yammerin's upset you."

"No," she said, trying to wipe her eyes and stand tall. "It's not that. It's just…I'm not so sure I could keep that promise. You look born to be a parent. Natural."

"I don't know about that," said Tom reassuringly. "It just sort of comes to you. Wait until things settle down."

"Yes," said Mary with a small shake of her head. "Of course." She waited for Tom's footfalls in the hall to fade before breaking down again.

"Can I do anything?" asked Anna.

"No," said Mary, trying again to compose herself. Lately, that seemed to be her primary objective. She almost instinctively said she'd be fine, but choked on the words. Would she ever be fine again?

Left with nothing to do, but waiting for Mary to speak, Anna folded the baby blanket and left it beside the ornate crib. She took a peek at the sleeping boy, and tried to open a safe conversation. "He's quite handsome. And Mr. Branson's right, you'll be a wonderful mother. You'll see."

The words were intended to bring friendly comfort, but had the opposite effect, as Mary only cried harder. She'd heard the same sentiment from Matthew, but then he'd always see things in her she wasn't positive were actually there—or perhaps they weren't until Matthew unearthed them. "I'm not so sure," she said, wanting to tell someone her deepest fear; the one that nagged her in the night and drew her back to this room and this child.

"Of course you will," said Anna. "Motherhood must be the strongest instinct of all. I saw you in hospital with him. You took to it right away."

"You don't understand," insisted Mary. "I keep wandering in here and holding him, but…"

"But, what?"

"Don't you see?" said Mary, gesturing to the crib. "It isn't there. I keep waiting for it, but I don't feel it. At least not the way I should. It was different in the hospital." Did she really have to say why?

Anna's heart broke for the young widow. She knew the long and rocky road Mary had taken to happiness with Matthew Crawley, but the maid knew a bit about delayed happiness herself. "Some things take time. It seems you'll never see light again, but look at Mr. Branson and baby Sybil, or what I went through with Mr. Bates—"

"You?" cried Mary. "You have your husband!" She knew she sounded bitter and hateful, but couldn't quell the envious outburst. She pointed at the baby, who stirred at her raised voice. "I want to love him. I want to be what everyone wants me to be, but I look at this child and all I see is Matthew, and he's never coming back! I'll never get a letter or go to visit him, or wait at the door for his joyous release. We were supposed to raise a family _together_. I didn't sign up for this!"

Shocked, Anna watched as Lady Mary Crawley ran from the nursery, the now wailing cries of baby George echoing after her.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Depression

Part 3

Lady Edith Crawley knocked lightly at her sister's door. When she received no reply, she quietly opened it and stepped inside the room to find Mary in a chair by the window staring absently out into the grounds.

"Mary?" she said cheerfully. "Mind if I come in?"

Mary slowly turned her head, but didn't move another muscle. "As you are already in, I find that question superfluous."

Edith ignored the remark and moved closer to Mary. "Mama says Granny is coming to dinner tonight. And Isobel. Finally. It's the first invitation she's accepted since…since the accident."

"You mean since Matthew died," said Mary. "You don't have to sugar coat it for me. You've never spared my feelings before. And as you know, I am very well acquainted with unpleasant events. At least this time I didn't have to hide the body."

Edith winced. She'd hoped they had grown up and beyond their mutually catty past. But then, she'd voiced that hope when they'd lost Sybil, and things had since warmed only slightly, and partly because Matthew had treated Michael Gregson well in Scotland. "Mary, please. We're sisters. I want to help, if you'll let me."

"Help?" said Mary skeptically. "Aren't you the capable one. Lucky you, with Sybil gone and my life all but over, you finally get to be the fortunate one."

"Don't talk like that." Edith stiffened. "I don't deserve it. I've had my share of bad luck or have you forgotten that I was left at the altar in full view of everyone I know? Sybil married, and you had your wedding to your Prince Charming. I honestly don't know if I'll ever have that. And I'm ever so sorry about Matthew. Truly I am. I liked him very much."

"Was there anything else?"

Edith sighed. "No," she surrendered. "Just a message from Mama that she'd like you to come down and greet Granny and Isobel before dinner if you're up to it."

"And show off the heir apparent?"

"They're his grandmothers. I'm sure they'd like to see him. And you."

DA/SoG

A few hours later, Edith met her grandmother as she arrived for dinner. "Mama and Papa are still dressing. They'll be down shortly."

Violet took her granddaughter's arm and pulled her aside. "Tell me, how is Mary?"

Edith sighed. "Much the same, I'm afraid. It's been weeks, but she just stays cooped up in her room. She said her life was over."

"At her age? Nonsense." The older woman thought of all she had lived and witnessed since she was Mary's age; marriages, births, deaths, wars and the crowning of a king. "Plenty of life left. She just needs a reason to live it."

"I know," agreed Edith. "I think maybe she needs something to do."

"Do?"

"Yes," insisted Edith. "Something to care about again. A purpose." She hesitated, but continued. "I know Papa thinks it's a silly thing or that it will eventually go terribly wrong, and maybe it will, but it's helped me to have my work at the magazine. Just knowing someone is expecting you or waiting to hear from you, or simply appreciates what you can offer; it gave me a reason to get out of bed again. To get off this estate and go to London once in a while instead of sitting like Rapunzel in my tower. Maybe Mary needs something like that."

Soon after, Mary sat stiffly in a rigid armchair beside the sofa in the drawing room. Summoned to greet her grandmother and mother-in-law, who had arrived early for dinner just so they could visit with the newest baby Crawley. Her parents were still dressing, so Mary was left to play hostess, a macabre sight in her widow's garb.

Trying to look anywhere but at her still grieving granddaughter and cousin, Violet glanced around, silently recalled sitting in this same room years back, her husband beside her, as Cora and Robert proudly showed off their daughters in turn. She tapped down a bubble of remorse as she remembered the increasing disappointment she shared with her own Lord Grantham at the birth of each beautiful, healthy Crawley daughter. If Robert felt disappointed, he never spoke of it, and he gallantly defended Cora when his mother tried to assign blame to his American wife. _There will be more children, Mama. We will have a son. And if we don't, so be it._ Violet had blanched at the thought of Downton shifting to the line of cousin James. She'd never liked him. And as if to torment her, James's marriage had quickly produced a son. Now, he was gone, and with him young Patrick, heirs in line taken as abruptly as their darling Sybil, who had been perhaps the most disappointing birth of all. _Another girl_.

So here sat Violet Crawley, the Dowager Countess of Grantham, having outlived yet another member of the younger generations, wizened by age, knowing never to take life, or death, or birth for granted again. Of course, her change of philosophy was made that much easier knowing her son's line remained more or less intact, and his grandson would be Earl of Grantham.

Beside her, cousin Isobel was pale and drawn, another ghostly apparition looking far older in her black and grief than her years should allow. She held her grandson, cradling him carefully in practiced arms.

"He's quite a winsome boy," said Violet, with what could almost be described as cheer. Leaning over her cousin, perfectly content to admire the newest Crawley from afar.

"Yes." Mary's flat response lacked emotion, as if her grandmother had commented on the weather.

Isobel's eyes turned wistful, but never left the infant. "He reminds me so much of Matthew. You know, when he was a newborn—"

"Sorry." Mary suddenly stood, rubbing her temples. "I'm afraid I have a bit of headache. I'll get the nurse to take him up." She excused herself and headed for the staircase.

"That came on suddenly." Isobel watched her go.

"Suddenly," said Violet sadly, "seems to be the timeframe for everything around here lately. But, I suppose, she can be forgiven under the circumstances."

"Forgiven, certainly," said Isobel. "I was thinking more along the lines of being helped."

Violet raised her eyebrows in confusion and gestured around her. "She has all the help she needs right here. Her family, servants, and a nurse for the baby. And Tom has been a comfort—"

"Does she spend much time with him?" asked Isobel. "The baby, I mean. She hardly looked his way all the time she was here."

"I couldn't say." It was a lie. Violet had noticed Mary's withdrawal from her son, and from the entire family. Everyone had. But the protective dowager was not of a mind to share such details yet, even with Isobel. Especially with Isobel. "She's had a shock," said Violet. "She isn't quite herself yet. I fear no one is." That was true enough, anyway.

The baby fussed and Isobel deftly hoisted him to her shoulder and patted his back. "There, there," she said in a soothing voice. "Your father always liked when I patted him this way." Noticing Violet intently watching her, she made her cousin an offer. "Would you like to have a go?"

"Me?" Violet recoiled. "Heaven's no. I wouldn't trust myself. It's been quite a long while."

Isobel thought for a moment, but couldn't come up with a single time she had seen cousin Violet handle young Sybil, other than for a photograph at the infant's christening. She'd questioned the dowager's maternal involvement before, but had somehow never quite imagined the level of her older cousin's inexperience and insecurity with babies. Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the nurse, who had come for baby George. Placing a tender kiss on his forehead, Isobel reluctantly gave him up.

She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.

Violet, searching for something—anything-else to talk about, said, "I think it's time for Mary to take a role in running the estate."

Isobel looked up. "Really? Do you think that's wise?"

"There is still quite a bit to be settled with the taxes and accounts," said Violet, "but it's only right that she have a say in estate matters now."

_Now that Matthew is gone._ She knew Mary would inherit, but the unspoken words cut Isobel to the heart. "And how does Robert feel about that?"

Violet hated seeing her son so burdened with responsibility and mourning. Again. It seemed a never-ending cycle, and much as she resisted, age and modern times were slowly sapping her own wealth of resources to assist him. Still, though this one might well be her last hurrah, she was determined to see it through. "I'm not sure Robert knows how he feels about anything right now," she said, "but he will accept her."

"He didn't accept Matthew," said Isobel. "At least, not right away."

"Not this again. He brought Matthew here. He wanted him to stand as heir."

Isobel nodded. "A step behind and to the left. But when Matthew wanted a say in matters of the estate, Robert—"

"Robert was raised to run Downton," Violet's sharp voice cut her off. "They may have both made mistakes on the business end, but my husband made quite sure Robert's whole life would be devoted to the management of this estate, as his father had done for him. But he also made it very clear that Robert was to wait his turn. When one prepares a lifetime for a life tenure position such as a peer title, I expect it is difficult to share it. I think there is a very good reason there is only one sitting earl at a time."

"And only one sitting countess?" Isobel couldn't resist a small jab, but her heart wasn't in it. "I suppose that explains your taking up residence in the Dower House?"

Violet simply waved her off. "A ship cannot have two captains."

Isobel wasn't quite sure whether Violet was referring to she and Robert as captains of Downton, or she and Cora as captains of the household. Either way, it didn't matter. "Robert nearly sank his ship." Isobel didn't really know why she continued to target Robert; after all, he had been kinder to her over the years than either Violet or Cora had.

"My grandfather was a naval officer," said Violet with a wry smile. "He used to say all a foundering vessel needed to steady itself was the right ballast in the right places. In stormy seas, Robert had finally settled on Matthew and Tom. And now it seems Tom will need a new ally to keep Robert balanced. Mary has an interest and will need a purpose."

"Isn't her purpose to be a mother?" Isobel's own face suddenly flushed as she was revisited by the realization that she had just lost her own purpose in life. She was no longer a mother.

Violet bristled again. "Mary knows she will be holding Downton only until the young master succeeds Robert—"

"That's just it," said Isobel, desperate for something to focus on. "Doesn't it worry you that she speaks of the child only as heir?"

"But he _is_ the heir."

"First and foremost, he is her son."

Violet shifted on her chair. "I am quite sure Mary is aware of the child's parentage. She _is_ his mother. I doubt any woman could forget that fact."

"Really?" asked Isobel. "And when Robert was born, how did you see him? As your beautiful son, or as heir to the Downton dynasty?"

"Both, of course," said Violet, "but don't worry, we visited the cupboard we kept him in and admired him once a day until the happy day his father died and we let him out to become Earl of Grantham. I'm only sorry I won't be around to relive it when they bury him in favor of George." Even the dowager pulled up short, knowing from painful recent experience that there was no guarantee that children outlive their parents.

"I'm sorry." Sharing Violet's silent realization, Isobel relented. "I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

Violet continued, but without sarcasm. "You may not approve of life in a titled family, but the reality remains that succession is the key product in the marriages of each generation in line. I was delighted to have produced two healthy children. I did not care for either of my children any more or less than the other. We valued our children, just as we all valued Mary, Edith and Sybil. They were all equally prepared for the life they would eventually have."

"Valued. Prepared. Do you hear yourself? You could be speaking about servants or gardeners, or even the family dog—not children. George is a baby. My son's baby. I would hope that he is more than valued. And aren't you worried about Mary?"

The women ended their conversation abruptly as the dinner was announced and the voices of Robert, Cora, Edith and Tom were heard in the saloon, but Violet would have the last word.

"Just because an emotion isn't hung like a banner from the family flagpole," she said, "doesn't mean it isn't there."

Dinner was a mostly subdued affair, with polite conversation about the weather, little Sybil and other safe topics, but the diners all pointedly ignored the rather large elephant in the room: the two glaringly empty chairs that should have been filled by Mary and Matthew.

After everyone else had retired for the evening, Robert poured two drinks in the library. He handed one to Cora. "Well, that was painful."

Cora sipped. "Poor Isobel. She looked terrible. So drawn and pale. I suppose we should consider it a victory that she was here at all."

"And tonight was another defeat on the Mary front?"

Cora nodded, and took their glasses and set both down. "One project at a time, darling. I'll try to speak to her again tomorrow, but I'm afraid a dinner invitation and some company just won't cure what ails Mary." She kissed him on the cheek. "I hope she just needs more time. I'll speak to Dr. Clarkson, about Mary and Isobel. Maybe he has some ideas that will help."

Robert swallowed his comment on that subject and offered his wife his arm to lead her upstairs for the night.

DA/SoG

Isobel greeted her visitor just after lunch. If she were honest, the deathly quiet of her house was getting to her. Her servants tiptoed around her, and after the initial flurry of people paying respects, her visitors dwindled, along with her invitations. Of course, that could be partly due to her continued refusals. Cora came fairly regularly, sometimes with Robert, and had phoned her up to check on her or extend invitations to dinner, Tom had stopped on a few occasions, and even Violet had paid calls, but it was hard for the normally gregarious Isobel to consider any of them welcome, and somehow the house seemed more empty and silent after they left.

Requesting tea for two, she led him to her sitting room and Dr. Clarkson set his bag on the floor and sat in an armchair. They exchanged pleasantries and the conversation petered out. After an awkward pause, Clarkson pressed on.

"Now, how are you?" he asked.

"Are you asking as my physician or as my friend?"

The doctor shrugged. "Whichever will get me an answer."

"All right," Isobel relented. "I'm fine."

The doctor frowned. "An _honest_ answer."

Isobel sighed. "I am as fine as a mother can be after she's just lost her only child." She smirked and stubbornly set her chin at him. "There now, are you happy?"

He shook his head helplessly at her. "I wish there was more I could do to help, but maybe we can go for a drive, or I can give you something to help you sleep—"

"You don't have to drug me," she snapped. "I know all too well what grief does to the mind and body. I learned firsthand after I lost my husband."

Clarkson withdrew, if only emotionally.

"Then, I had Matthew to buck me up. I had to keep going, I had to be strong for him, so he didn't worry too much about me. And now," she continued, trying to sound matter-of-fact. "I've lost him. I've lost my son. I am alone."

"You're not alone," said the doctor, careful not to offer too much. "You have your family and your grandson."

"Do I?" she asked. "He's one of them now. They'll see to it. With Matthew gone, I'll be pushed aside, you'll see. Invited for the odd birthday or holiday supper like some eccentric maiden aunt."

"I'm sure you're wrong," said Clarkson, knowing that it was Cora's concern that precipitated his visit to Isobel. "I've always found Lady Grantham to be gracious and sincere, and Lord Grantham may be a bit old fashioned, but that also makes him fiercely loyal to the people around him. I doubt they'd cut you off."

Realizing she sounded a bit churlish, she tried to change the subject, if only slightly. "Besides, the one you should really be worrying about is Mary."

He'd seen Mary recently, and had his own concerns, echoed by her family, but in the interest of patient confidentiality he played dumb. "Lady Mary? Why?"

"I think Mary is showing signs of post-partum depression. She sees no one. She speaks to no one, and when she does she's like a sleepwalker. She barely leaves her room."

The doctor raised an amused eyebrow at Isobel's confident diagnosis. Always at her best when she had a corner to fight, he was pleased to see at least a flash of spirit. "Well, I'm sure you know that's not unusual for any new mother," said Clarkson. "Especially under the circumstances. I've checked on her regularly and physically she's completely recovered from childbirth, but Lady Mary is processing a very potent cocktail of hormones and emotions these last weeks. Many new mothers feel depressed, even after births that are relatively uneventful."

"True," said Isobel, "but she seems to be growing completely disconnected from her child. She hardly touches him."

Dr. Clarkson nodded knowingly, but wondered if Isobel saw warning signs in her own recent behavior. "Again, that is not terribly unusual, especially in aristocratic households such as Downton, where children are often raised by an army of nurses and nannies. I'll admit that Lady Grantham was a bit more hands-on than most of her titled contemporaries, but all the Crawley sisters were raised with that privilege and let's face it, Lady Mary may be the least maternal Crawley of all."

Isobel gave a snort of mild disgust. "It's hard to imagine anyone less maternal than the dowager. She and Mary are two peas in a pod. All they care about is tradition and succession. Downton this and Downton that."

"Oh, I don't know," said the doctor. "Money and servants aside, it can't always be easy living the way they do, so tied to the past it strangles the future. I envy that life sometimes, but I'm not sure I'd want it. But you and I've been around the Crawleys enough to know there are strong ties there. Most of the time anyway. They're more reserved and private than most, but I won't judge them. They are basically a normal family; well, as normal as they can be anyhow."

He was struck by how many moments of joy and sadness he had been privy to within the imposing stone walls of Downton. He'd treated the earl's daughters from sniffles to womanhood, had pronounced the former lord's death, confirmed Lady Grantham's surprise fourth pregnancy and the devastating miscarriage that followed. Then there was poor Lavinia Swire. And Matthew's war injury. But that seemed a lifetime ago. Matthew Crawley's lifetime.

"In hospital, Lady Mary seemed thrilled with motherhood," he said. "You saw it yourself." He struggled not to say _before the accident_ or mention that the new mother's elation had been short-lived. "She will find her way." He made another attempt to redirect Isobel's attention and soften her stance on the Crawleys. "And you may be surprised to know that even the dowager has surprised me at times."

Clarkson also remembered the senior Lady Grantham's efforts to ensure comfortable final days for the wounded young footman William Mason, and her insistence that the doctor himself join forces with her in an attempt to mend the rift caused by the death of Lady Sybil in her son's marriage. Though they'd never spoken of it again, Dr. Clarkson had observed the return to normalcy in the lord and lady's relationship, undoubtedly a result of the dowager's successful meddling.

Isobel sipped at her tea. "She is completely out of touch. Do you know that she thinks the way to snap Mary out of her widow's grief is to set her to work at Matthew's job on the estate?"

He processed the evidence before him quickly, and matched it with what he had learned from Lady Grantham that morning. Knowing he could say no more aloud without violating the confidence of the family, he gave Isobel a mournful smile-and a bit of a challenge. Having come to know Isobel Crawley even casually, the doctor realized his first, best prescription for her was not to be found in his black bag. "I suspect that beneath her hard exterior, the dowager is actually quite caring and wise. Though the message at times may be delivered in a rather blunt and heavy-handed manner, she is a woman of action and her instincts about her family are frequently on target."

"Yes," mused Isobel, nibbling at a biscuit and at the bait.

"Well, I should be off." The doctor stood and grabbed his hat and bag. "I'll check in on Lady Mary again soon. I promise. Of course," he stated, trying to sound as if he were thinking on the fly, "if what you say is true; if she really is as withdrawn and depressed as you say, I'm sure the Dowager Countess will bring her 'round. She is a force of nature and she's well-intentioned, 'tis only a shame that she lacks tact in delicate situations."

"Yes," said Isobel, following him to the door, thinking out loud as she walked. "But this business needs a velvet glove. Mary is in mourning. She's fragile and broken. She may be a Crawley, but simply telling her to snap out of it for tradition's sake won't do. She'll need someone who understands what she is going through, emotionally as well as physically."

She paused, and like every good fisherman, the good doctor waited until his opponent to make the next move. She did, taking the hook, line and sinker.

"Yes," she said. "I'll call 'round myself tomorrow. I'll see Lady Grantham first at the Dower House. Perhaps if we all join forces, we can make a difference in the lives of Mary and George before it is too late."

Smiling, Dr. Clarkson tipped his hat and departed, content in the knowledge that at least one Crawley patient had taken her medicine and was on the road to recovery.


End file.
